Maybe I'll Float Away

I’ve never really been present. Not once in my entire adult life.

I’m always stuck somewhere else. Worrying about the future, replaying the past. Even when she was here, lying beside me, part of my life, I couldn’t just be. We’d cuddle, and my brain would hijack the moment. I’d start thinking about her going back home, about how empty I’d feel afterward. Already mourning her while she was still in my arms.

When I walk outside, I constantly wonder how weird I must look to other people. Like I don’t belong. Like there’s something off. It’s exhausting. So exhausting to carry this invisible weight around. It’s like dragging a 50-pound dumbbell with me everywhere I go. My arms are cramping and people keep saying, “Just drop it.”

But I can’t.

Maybe it’s because I’m attached to it. Like part of me wants to carry it. Maybe I’m afraid of what will happen if I let go. Maybe I’ll float away.

Kind of like that American Dad episode where Roger’s a bounty hunter and gets really high. There’s a scene where he’s clinging to a bag of cat food like it’s the only thing tethering him to Earth. That’s what this feels like. I’m clutching my own version of that cat food, terrified that if I release it, I’ll drift into nothing.

But man… I’m tired.